Breathe Easy
by RubyGloom7
Summary: I would have been able to feel proud that Inigo was saying that about my mom, had I not been going through this stage after dealing with the neighbor across our street. But at that time, when the words came out of his mouth and I looked at him, and he was still looking at my mom, I couldn't think of anything I wanted more than to punch his teeth in. [Goes with 'The Man'. Read A/N.]


**A/N:** Another family thing! I felt very happy with what I accomplished in 'The Man', and also with this writing style. I felt I had more things to add though, but I found no place to include this in the previous chapter of this now series in Archive of Our Own, so I'll just post this as its own thing, though it is highly suggested you go and read 'The Man' first, which you can find in my story list, because it adds context that I suspect is needed to understand and enjoy this story. Again; the main theme here is A Son's Love.

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 **Breathe Easy**

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There was this man who had been interested in my mother too, before Lon'qu came along. He used to live across our street. I'm sure he told me his name, and there was a shiny metal plate on his house that bore his family's name as well, but I never became interested in these things, so I don't even remember stuff like that about him. He had appeared to be serious about _pursuing_ my mother though. It was just the way it sounds; he'd waste no opportunity to talk to her on whatever subject - the weather, the news, her garden, if she needed help with it. He was somewhat of a gardener, he had told her. He'd be happy to share his gardening secrets with her. Whatever those were.

He used to talk with me as well, but these talks weren't something I looked forward too. It sort of freaked me out that he, a single guy with no kids of his own and no apparent nieces, knew the time my school's bus would drop me, and he'd be out, pretending to water his plants or some other thing, just so he could wave at me and call me _buddy_. Not even my father had done that when he'd still been around. He'd never called me buddy. It ticked me off, a bit. I also remember this once when I turned twelve, and this same guy dropped at our house late in the afternoon. I had been watching television in my room, just laying on my bed and staring at the colors on the screen, not really paying attention, when I heard his voice, and my mother's.

I couldn't hear what they were saying, but pretty soon my mother got rid of him. Then I heard her muttering something to herself as she went up the stairs, and I knew she was coming to my room. It was a gut thing. I sat up, ready to receive her, but she took longer than I'd expected for her to knock on my door. Then I looked down, to the slit of light below my door, and I saw the shadows of her legs. She was standing outside, maybe unsure whether it was a good idea to knock. I was getting this weird feeling in my stomach when finally she entered.

She was holding a shiny new helmet, like the kind that professional cyclists wear. I had been about to ask her what she was doing with that when she tossed it to me. You remember our neighbor from across the street? she asked me.

Yeah, I told her. Did he bring this?

Uh-huh, she responded. And a skateboard. Birthday gifts, for you.

A skateboard and a bike helmet. He'd bought those things for me. I looked at her, and she looked at me. And then we burst out laughing. He's bad, I realized then. He was really, really bad, if that's the move he'd decided to pull. Basically he was trying to buy me with toys, bribing me, kind of. Like my mother was this princess trapped in a tower, but before he could get to her he had to cross this bridge, which happened to be guarded by a troll, and he had to pay a toll or something so he could pass.

I was the troll.

After we finished laughing, and I was about to tell her that I really would not be using these things, that I wasn't into it, my mother took a more serious face. That threw me off. Does he do that? she asked me. When I'm not around? Does he give you things?

No, I told her. This was the first time he gave me anything. I added that he was _'friendly'_ with me, how he waved at me after I got off the school bus.

Friendly how? my mother asked me.

 _Oh_ , I thought. It's not like that, I told her. I think he likes you. Do you like him?

Don't change the subject, my mother told me, and I could tell she was being serious. Has he done anything?

I nearly laughed again. It was incredible how she couldn't see it. This man was after _her_ ; he was just using me to show what a good man he could be for her. He was good with her kid, what else could she possibly want? As if a lot of men out there were after women with pre-started families, to put it kindly; she should be flattered he even made the effort. These are the things I thought that man had in mind, at least. An asshole's thoughts. That's how I saw that guy. Treating me like a troll, treating my mother like a desperate divorcee who would conform with anyone willing enough to overlook me. What was I; a congenital lump? Did he think I could be removed with surgery?

 _Fuck you_ , I told him once. It was the first time I'd ever insulted anybody and really meant it. He'd knocked on our door, his face falling when he saw it was me who answered and then forcing himself to smile all fatherly-like. I had been studying for this big test for weeks, and I'd just gotten home sure that I'd secured a solid D at least, enough to pass, but not enough to save me from my mother's look of disappointment and her subsequent motherly nagging. I had been sitting on the couch, munching miserably on a sandwich, waiting for the inevitable for when my mother got home and asked me how I'd done - and what was the use in lying to her when she'd get the report card and get even angrier for me not telling her the truth?

It would be better to tell her that I'd done my best, I thought. But that I didn't think that had been enough. She would be less upset at that. She would probably console me even. But just as I was consoling myself with those thoughts this guy from across the street came and asked me for her; where was she? Like he had any right to ask. Would she be getting home soon? He had these tickets, and- I didn't let him finish.

 _Fuck you_ , I told him. Fuck _you_ and your fucking _tickets_. Leave us _alone_.

I didn't yell at him. I was too tired for that. Also, he had this face. The kind of face you don't expect a grown man to make, even when insulted the way I insulted him. Like a hurt child. He'd had it coming, he should have known. He wasn't cute, or funny, with his suburban attitude and fake grin. He was just another man, one whom my mother wasn't interested in. He had as much appeal as a dry toast when offered to a dehydrated man lost in a desert.

Perhaps this marked the moment I turned into _that kind_ of son. The one that barks at strange men when they get too close to their mothers. Like a mad dog. Mom got concerned for a while, though I'd had no intention whatsoever of provoking that in her.

What's gotten into you? she asked me after this one incident. We'd been at the mall. It was her birthday, the second after the divorce, and she was wearing the candle-white dress she had bought for herself the year prior. This dress showed off her legs, though I doubt she was even aware of it, or bought it with the intention of bragging. She had nice legs, I suppose. Long and smooth.

You have a dancer's legs, Olivia had told her. She had accompanied us this time, and she'd brought her son as well, for me to talk to in case I wasn't into the whole 'going shopping with mom deal'. We'd stopped to buy some ice-cream and now she was sitting on a small separate table, while I sat with her son, Inigo.

I used to dance, Olivia was saying. Before I got pregnant with Inigo. Now I just dance in my living room, and my only partner is the vacuum.

They laughed as Olivia joked that her vacuum was still a better dance partner than her husband - at least it didn't step on her toes -, when Inigo leaned close to me and whispered, _your mom's hot._

He hadn't said it meaning anything. I'm sure he'd just been looking at her legs, which as I said, where nice smooth legs. Like she'd never walked once in her entire life; like people carried her places, like a princess in a fairy tale, so her legs remained young. And all Inigo had said was that he thought my mother was attractive - that's it. She's nice-looking. She's pretty. He'd even said it with a very innocent voice, like he thought he was giving me a compliment. You know what I mean. _'Is that your mom? Wow, she's pretty'_

I would have been able to feel proud that Inigo was saying that about my mom, had I not been going through this stage after dealing with the neighbor across our street. But at that time, when the words came out of his mouth and I looked at him, and he was still looking at my mom, I couldn't think of anything I wanted more than to punch his teeth in.

Which I did.

I had never hit anybody before, and I've never since that time gotten into a fight. Fights are scary. But back then I couldn't think about what would happen after the initial shock of being punched wore off on Inigo. I wasn't concerned about him punching me back. I was just angry. I've never been so angry again, so I suppose that's why I never got into a fight again. Anger is the thing that destroys one's instincts of self-preservation, while fear for one's own well-being is the thing that keeps us from doing stupid things.

Things like pouncing on people who tell you, _your mom's hot._

Word got around at my school. I recall, as I squinted through the haze of anger as I struggled to get on top of Inigo on the floor, that there were people pointing their cellphones at us, all around. Videos were posted over the weekend of my mom's birthday, and on Monday Severa, at the cafeteria, was asking me why I'd done it.

I was surprised that such a petty thing got so many views in the internet. I don't think I'll ever get it.

I don't know, is what I told Severa. He pissed me off, I guess.

Sheesh, she said. What'd he do?

I sighed. He said something about my mom.

Oh, she responded. Serves him right, then.

Then she scooted closer to me and linked her arm with mine, and started texting on her phone. That was it. She was the type of girl to take initiative, but she was also terribly vague.

What's happening now? I thought as I looked at the top of her head, noting how nice she smelled. I didn't dare ask her though. After lunch hour she left me with a kiss. Short and sweet. It left crumbs on my lips, but I didn't mind. She could have eaten a sandwich stuffed full of onions and squid and I wouldn't have minded. I had a girlfriend, and that night, trying to keep quiet, all my thoughts were of her. I didn't even mind that mom had grounded me and confiscated all my video games. I had a girlfriend - or, well… something close enough to one.

For a while there, I was just so happy. I had been thinking, before Severa, that I would be like mom. These were ugly, stupid, selfish thoughts. Whenever people commented how much I looked like her, I didn't think it was a compliment. Things like that left me feeling uneasy.

Is that right? I would think. Am I just like her? Am I going to end up the same? Chased by men who pretend they like my kid, dealing with my kid punching my friends' kids? What kind of life was that?

I had seen mom at night, times that she stayed downstairs instead of going up to her room, and she'd sit at the dining table, holding a cup of coffee but not drinking from it. I came down for a glass of water one time, and she'd looked at me with those vacant eyes of an insomniac.

It's not fair, she said, talking about my father. He took the coat rack _and_ my sleep when he left as well. I'm not used to sleeping alone anymore. Maybe I should buy myself one of those body pillows, you know the kind?

I knew that I had to sit down as well, and listen to her until she was ready to go back up the stairs. Back to her empty room.

A nice, soft one of a color that matches with the covers, she rambled. I could get you one as well. How would you like it to be?

I'm alright, I said. I don't want one.

No, you wouldn't. You'd like a new video game, right? What sounds interesting? Nothing too gory though; you know I don't like you playing those.

I wasn't able to think of things to say to her. I was too concerned looking at the bags under her eyes, how her hair had lost lustre. How tired and alone she looked. I realized that was not a normal face to have. The kind of fatigue she suffered at night, and the way it made her look… It couldn't have been normal. That was the look of a broken heart. It made my own chest ache.

Unless you really want one, she sighed. Then I guess there's not much I can do about it. It's not like games make people violent - I know that. I'm not like other moms. I know what's going on.

I remember sitting very still, unsure if she meant what I thought she meant. That she wasn't fooled by how I hid my dirty laundry - the things that I left embarrassing wet stains on.

You're growing, she said. I get it.

Do you? I thought. Do you really?

And just as her hand reached to touch my cheek I noticed that her eyes were glassy.

You're starting to look like him, more and more.

I would walk around the house very self-consciously, after she told me that, that I was starting to resemble my father, as I grew. I almost didn't want her to see my face, fearing that she'd see him in me. And that's when I realized that I didn't mind being compared to my mother. Not as much as I minded being compared to my father. I was too concerned with exterior looks though. It has to be that way at that age. It took me many years still to understand that the looks I got from my father meant nothing, nothing at all, when I had taken nothing from him that really mattered.

I didn't learn from him the correct way to talk to a divorced woman's teenage kid. Lon'qu showed me that. He's the one I talked to when I had trouble trying to figure Severa out, and he'd comfort me by looking just as embarrassed as me when I asked. And the day my baby sister was born? When he held her, and I stood to the side, just like some onlooker passing by? That's what a father looks like, I thought. And then he looked at me and asked me if I wanted to hold my sister. _My sister._ And I had to correct myself. That's not what _a father_ looked like. That was just _my father_. My father inviting me to hold my sister, my father who kissed my mother's legs when she scraped them, my father who I yelled at and who yelled back at me, my father who I loved, and still love, because he was the one my broken family had been waiting for to make things right again.

He's the one, I remember my mother telling me, some days before Lon'qu proposed to her. She hadn't even suspected it, and neither had I. She hadn't even for a second supposed that just because she was pregnant - a fact I didn't know at the time -, he had to marry her. She was just happy that he was with us.

Maybe, I would always feel slightly left out. But _that_ is normal. That's how our family was supposed to be - the dad and the mom, and their kids. I wouldn't have to look back over my shoulder, when the time came to leave and find my own life, and worry that my mom would be standing alone, watching me walk away. Instead I would be able to breathe easy, knowing that she was loved in my absence.

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BTW, I don't think owning a body pillow is sad. I wish I had one. They look comfy. Comfier than my blankets.


End file.
